


A Fine Soul

by IncurableNecromantic



Series: Pragmatic Dreams [1]
Category: The Sandman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another take on Lucien's most outrageous display of emotion during the events of The Kindly Ones, and then a little epilogue thereafter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Soul

Lucien's library had rules, dozens of them. Rules for book treatment, rules for check-out durations, rules for noise level and organization and cleanliness. Rules that modified rules. Rules that negated rules. Rules that made rules. Rules that ruled rules. 

Rules were important. They kept a library—and anything less important, which really covered everything else in the universe—running well, kept it whole and healthy and functional and perfect. It was the biggest library ever. It needed rules and policies. And it needed Lucien, the best rule-keeper ever. 

Mervyn was terrible at obeying rules. 

Mervyn would come in with a shelf Lucien had requested, or a wheelbarrow of books, or a tarp and a ladder, when the realm was flooding in one of Lord Dream's moods and Lucien had to move everything up a few shelves. And while he was in the library, Mervyn would smoke and sometimes swear and forget to keep his voice down, and just handle books like they were…just…nonsense, stacking them or slamming them like there wasn't a right way to take care of them. Sometimes Lucien really hated asking for his help, since the way he treated books always almost gave him a heart attack with each new affront, and smoking was against policy, and Mervyn would always end up getting caught saying something impolitic and inflammatory by Lord Dream, and Lucien would have to bail him out a bit.

But Lucien liked Mervyn quite a lot, so despite the thoughtless machismo and the grave sin of book-abuse, he kind of looked forward to seeing Mervyn around his neck of the woods.

Kind of looked forward to it a lot.

More than he should.

That was a whole new can of worms, mind you. Liking Mervyn a lot, more than he should. They'd been friends since almost before he could remember…particularly since nearly all of his memory was devoted to his books, and their contents. But he knew he was old, and since he couldn't remember a time without the tough, golden-hearted bastard of a janitor, he assumed that they'd been friends for a very, very long time. Unlikely friends, and never terribly closer than they ought to be—after all, they moved in entirely different circles, Mervyn with his boys and Lucien with his books. But Mervyn always had a few minutes for a chat, and he always gave them to Lucien. And Lucien always had a polite smile and a listening ear, and sometimes a many-layered comment, for whatever Mervyn had to say. 

It was…nice. Lucien couldn't help but appreciate the attention—he loved his Lord as a monk loves his Creator, but he knew that it was not a very equal relationship. And he loved his books with whole-hearted passionate ardor, but they couldn't really speak back to him, didn't really recognize him, seek him out. 

Mervyn did. Lucien liked that. Lucien liked Mervyn. Far too much. 

He liked Mervyn enough to put up with the endless stories about city life and the bizarre adventures the scarecrow had had. Enough to sit at his check-out desk, taking a break from his work, to listen to Mervyn rail on about whatever had frustrated him that day. Enough to feel a bit of a flutter when Mervyn would nudge him in the ribs in a moment of camaraderie, and to look forward—much too intensely forward—to the janitor's daily visits.

Perhaps a 'crush' would not be too strong a term. Lucien had a little bit of a crush on him. It would pass—he'd read that these things always did. He just happened to enjoy his company rather a lot, and to seek it out, in his way, and to encourage Mervyn when he came on a social visit. It was very innocent and very manageable. Just a little crush.

Then the Ladies came.

It was a tense time, no question about it. Lord Dream was upset, inasmuch as he ever felt anything, and he'd already been coming off of a fairly bad split with his latest paramour. He was not at his best. He was not thinking clearly.

There were deaths. Lucien had not been privy to any of them himself, but he'd seen how the castle emptied out, how few—if any—came back once they'd left. It put him on edge, not quite to the point of anger or despair, but fear, intense anxiety. He needed to talk to Lord Dream about it. This was getting far, far out of hand.

Lucien had been passing the window. He made a cursory glance out and felt his heart drop like a stone into his stomach at the scene. He'd registered the ravens, poor Ruthven and his lady friend, even the Ladies themselves in the back of his mind, peripheral data, almost inconsequential. 

But that absolute idiot—that moron—that ridiculous barbaric thoughtless bastard—he'd seen him. In high definition. Seen him at the very moment the bullets slammed into him, smashing his head, spraying pulpy orange matter every which way, straw bursting out of his body, gushing like blood.

Lucien had jumped back, both hands over his mouth, not sure if he was trying not to scream or not to vomit. That fool! That stupid, stupid man! 

"No. No, no. Not him." 

But it had been him. Of course it had been! That foolish, inane, completely brainless dog had gone out there, against Them! He couldn't possibly have been asked to do it—Dream would never—he'd just done it on his own! Had to prove that he was brave! Had to prove that he was tough! 

That stupid, stupid…

"No, no, please, I never…"

Lucien pulled himself together, as much as he could. His chest, oh God, aching, burning. He wanted to reach a hand inside of himself and make a fist around his heart, squeeze it and keep the blood moving. It didn't feel like it would continue to beat on its own if he didn't…it would fall apart, open and barren like a wilted lily, if he didn't hold it together. Mervyn, you bastard! How could you? And you…you whores! You bitches! Sluts! Monsters! How dare you—how DARE you?!

Lucien fairly ran into the Throne Room, unable to look out any more windows. He couldn't look out there and see the headless strawless remains, the shattered limbs, the shard of rind, the spatter of—oh, God, he's going to be ill. Violently ill. How can this happen? How can anyone allow this to—

Lord Dream. How can he sit there? How can he just let his people—MERVYN—do this? Die like this? How can he sit there and brood, sit there and pout like a child when his people—Mervyn!—lie dead and broken and torn to shreds and food for the fucking ravens?

Crippled by disgust and agony, he stopped, slumping against the wall of the corridor. Lucien pressed his forehead against the marble, his skin running hot, unused as it was to the physical manifestation of passion of any kind. He swallowed down bile and tears and a scream or two and as much heartbreak as can fit in his thin frame. He forgot things, sometimes, things that aren't books. He won't forget this. Never. He kept his eyes open, because if he closed them, he'd see it—blam. Spatter. Blam. Spatter. Over and over and over again, a never-ending slide-show of the most horrible thing he's ever seen. The worst moment of his many thousand-year long life. And the pain, the agony burning in his wilted heart, because he never said it, never knew it himself. 

It doesn't matter now, or it shouldn't, but it does and it only serves to make all of the horror even worse. 

He stormed into the Throne Room, but it must seem like he just appeared. "Mervyn's dead."

"Yes."

Damn you! Damn your eyes, you monster! You sad, bitter, selfish child! "How…how dare you let that happen, Lord? How dare you?" 

"You will not speak to me like that, Lucien." Yes he will! Yes he fucking will! Monster! He'd mortally angry. More than he's ever been. More than he was when his words disappeared, when he lost his Library and thought he would go insane. 

"I doubt I'll be alive tomorrow, Lord. On that basis I find it particularly easy to say exactly what I think…I cannot believe that you of all people would let him—of all people…" He thought he might sob, and he didn't have time for it. He's too angry. It is right that he would be too angry. He'll have time for misery later, all the misery in all the years he could possibly still have to live. Now he's angry. And if he died tomorrow still angry, he'd be fine with that. "Mervyn was a fine soul…"

"He is far from the only one." Only more reason! Only MORE reason to get out there, to stop them, to take the fucking responsibility! 

"He didn't deserve it!"

"None of you deserve it." You fool. You dog. So angry. Such rage. Frothing in his blood, held down by nothing but some strange respect that he's not sure this man deserves, except maybe it's only respect insofar as he can beg something of the power he should have.

"You can't just sit here while they hurt us, to hurt you. Why aren't you restoring the things they destroy?" No answer. How could he sit there, silent and unmoving? How could his heart not be torn out of his chest to see this? "So are you going to let them kill us all? Are you going to let them pull the Dreaming down around your ears?"

"They will not leave until I am destroyed, by my own hand or another's. I…I knew what I was going to do, Lucien." And suddenly, he sees just what a child this being is...his king was lost, and bewildered. He wanted to pity him in that moment, that stammer and the earnest use of his name making him want so very much to feel sympathy. But he doesn't. He wants competence, a solution--not fallibility. Not tragedy. It makes the bile rise in his throat again. "I was going to remove the mortal woman Lyta Hall. She is what powers this aspect of the Furies. That proved…impractical."

Playing with her and discarding her. Like a toy. Hadn't he said once that a Dream couldn't do that? That an Endless couldn't? He'd doomed them because he tried to break the rules. He'd played like a fool and Lucien, Mervyn, the Dreaming was losing. "And now, Lord?"

"Now, I am…considering." Lucien felt like screaming.

Instead, he fell back on old habits. He waited. Lord Dream left. Lucien hated him a little, but then when Cain and the Corinthian and the child appeared, he found himself defending him, even as he remembered the last time Dream left, when his precious books... Perhaps he did it because someone must. Perhaps because he'd come to think of himself as Dream's most loyal servant, as well. In the back of his mind, he kept watching Mervyn die. Over and over and over. The heartache sunk deeper and deeper into his guts, until he was not thinking anymore. He just hurt everywhere, and the pain gave him clarity. Like fasting, to sharpen the mind, to reach an elevated state. He could see the Corinthian, out of his depth. Matthew the same. The child was beautiful and calm and unafraid. And unearthly.

Cain looked like he was hanging onto himself by a few threads, like his soul was weighted and dangling by a thin line to the rest of him. Lucien wondered if he looked the same. It was never a secret what Cain and Abel were. The Ladies had killed everything important and left them behind. They were keeping busy, again. He'd never pitied the First Murderer. And he hated knowing that someone else was feeling the exact same thing he was.

Dream returned. He gave orders. Lucien obeyed them. 

He went back to his Library. That he could still protect. He'd cling to it until he fades with it, as long as he does not lose this, too. His darling. His beloved books. His loveless, thoughtless, empty books, full of words that were never for him, that were never intended to be read by anyone at all. Books that he adored because he must, because it is his job. And he does love them. So much.

He tore the nightmares apart with his bare hands. He kicked them, and they burst into nasty viscous goo on impact. He seized them and snapped their throats. He actually bit a few of them, like an animal, really, the part of him that was still aware that he is mild and polite and prim aghast at the monstrousness of tearing another creature's throat out with his teeth. Some of them he left whimpering and crying on the ground for a few moments.

But he's always thought of himself as kind. He didn't make them whimper long.

He went back to the Throne Room. Lord Dream cared about the child and ordered the Emerald to be given to him. He had an idea what that means. He'd make sure the other nightmares do not get to the child. 

He locked his Library and put the key in his pocket. Stay safe, love, the way he couldn't. You're all that's left.

He felt the tremors in the Throne Room and watched as the Emerald changed. There stood a new Dream, a Dream shown in reverse, bleached and hollow-eyed. Lucien was exhausted and beyond the point of caring, pain and weariness aching in every part of him. He only barely thought to bow.

The next thing he remembered really clearly was sitting next to Bhartari Raja and drinking. Drinking quite a lot. Glass after glass of wine. Thinking about Mervyn. The leisure of the pre-Wake party had given him a chance to digest some of the misery he'd been holding onto, and he found that he didn't like doing that. In fact, he hated it. Misery was hot and sticky, and he felt dirty. Every time he closed his eyes: blam. Spatter. Lucien swallowed an entire glass in one go. He was purging himself, flushing his broken heart out with cold wine and filling his ears with Bhartari's stories. 

He leaned against his old friend heavily. He slung an arm around him, thought about maybe even kissing him. He could say it was just too much drink—and that it certainly was, for a man who never imbibed—and pretend he wasn't trying to taste pumpkin on his friend's lips. 

He didn't.

He just drank.

The need to go to the Wake sobered him up. He was headachey and sure that he'd been just insufferable. Poor Eve. She was good to host, and good to put up with him while he was drunk. He shuddered to think what rambling nonsense had left his mouth while he was intoxicated. Grief and alcohol and an encyclopedic knowledge of every book in existence must make for a tedious conversation. 

He led the way into the mausoleum, trudging. His mind wasn't on it, and he was ashamed. Until the end, Lord Morpheus—the old one, how confusing—had been good to him. Very decent to him. He didn't deserve Lucien's inattention. 

Lucien took his seat in the middle, near a window. He wanted to be in the front, sort of, just to prove that he was good, that he was dutiful to his Lord. But he knew he had nothing to say, that his heart wasn't in it. His Lord wasn't dead. All that was there was the body.

His mind was on those who were dead. One of them. Would this ever stop hurting? Couldn't he just take that stiff and cold façade of his and drag it inside, pull it under his skin and clasp it around his heart? Take out that warmth that Mervyn had put in him, take that little flutter of excitement, that low buzz of anticipation. He wanted to stop waiting. The scarecrow would never make a daily round again, would never stop by his Library or catch his attention or call him "Loosh" or claim he never did real work. He could withstand it. He would! But why must it hurt?

He didn't believe his peripheral vision when something orange wearing a tuxedo sat next to him. Nor his central vision when two loafers propped insolently up on the pew in front of him. Lucien closed his eyes and rubbed them. Pain was one thing. He could handle it. Hallucinations, no. Never. He'd danced perilously near to madness before. He couldn't handle it now, in public. If he must suffer, let his insanity manifest in private.

"Heh. The boys told me you been drinkin'. Figgers yer a lightweight, Loosh." 

He was nudged in the side by a pointy elbow. There was that flutter, and suddenly his chest was too small for his heart. It was trying to beat through his ribs, leap out of his body, rip an enormous bloody hole in him, leave him gutted and joyfully dead as it hopped happily right into Mervyn's gardening-gloved hands, where he'd only just learned it had been for a long time.

Hallucinations, as far as he knew, never jabbed one in the side so that one could feel it.

Miracles. Miracles. Lucien found himself offering a brief prayer of thanks to his Lord. Thank you. Thank you forever.

Lucien pulled his hands away from his eyes and looked over, catching the scarecrow's smug grin. He smelled like cigars and alcohol and looked completely ridiculous in fancy dress. Lucien wanted to throw himself into Mervyn's arms, wrap all the limbs around him that he could, kiss him like a total lunatic, squeeze him until he suffocated—lack of lungs be damned!—even bite him with his teeth, just to know he was alive again. 

He stuck out his hand. "Mervyn. I'm so happy to see you again." His voice was perfectly calm, not at all like he was ready to cry from sheer relief. 

Merv grabbed his hand and shook it, roughly clapping the Librarian on the back. "Helluva party, huh, Loosh?" 

"I wouldn't know. But is this the appropriate venue for such a statement?"

He snickered. "Come all the way back from the dead an' get yelled at fer livin'." 

"A little respect would not go amiss." His mind wasn't on respect. It was on telling the brute, the dog, the moronic pumpkin-headed twit that he adored him.

But if this venue wasn't right for a party, it certainly wasn't right for a confession of this magnitude.

"Yeah, yeah, respect this, respect that. I bet you were bored without someone callin' it like it is."

Lucien felt himself smiling with his whole face. Lips and teeth and cheeks and eyes and eyebrows got in on it. "My dear man, you have no idea."

And then they Waked.


End file.
